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<title>The Fear of Fucking Up by Unique_Username_7</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845604">The Fear of Fucking Up</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unique_Username_7/pseuds/Unique_Username_7'>Unique_Username_7</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Letters in the Rivine, anime - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:09:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unique_Username_7/pseuds/Unique_Username_7</td></tr>

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<a name="section0001"><h2>The Fear of Fucking Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I never wanted to be alone. Everyone around me will reject me if I reach out to them, though. These walls of this cozy yet suffocating forest are going to be torn down eventually, if not by myself than by others. As a child, I lacked the knowledge and observations to fear the world around me. I was on track to chase my dreams to wherever they lead and realize them, or at least get closer to them. Deep down I don’t want all of this suffering to have been my fault. My mind craves some sort of scapegoat to comfort me and say that I wasn’t the complete cause of my own mental issues, though I’m still uncertain of how much I should blame myself never bothered me that much, and I don't have the level of mental illness to feel worthy of much sympathy. Most people would probably kill for a life so stable and void of serious external conflict. Sometimes I glance at my parents’ divorce as something to deem a root of my unhappiness, but truthfully, that happened over a decade ago, and even back then, it never really bothered me that much. No one hurt me, every prominent person in my life has been fairly nice or never bothered me to any degree, leading me to deem myself the culprit and thus deserving more hatred from those around me because of how much I lie to them in order to save face. I don’t want sympathy; I frankly don’t deserve it, or rather, I have not earned it. Yet, I always crave someone to at least be here with me. I crave the kindness that other people give to me, to the point of being emotionally moved by mundane displays of deep compassion in fiction and in my own life. Everyone calls me a “nice person”, but the actions I see myself doing are far less meaningfully helpful than those who can console their friends and family when they’re dealing with deeper issues. Sometimes I tried that and was often surprisingly successful to an extent, but nowadays I mostly run away from communicating with the people I used to call friends.  The possibility for me to just pick up the phone and write a text or e-mail to any of them is always there, so why am I stifled when it comes to actually doing it. Either way, the answer shouldn’t keep me from moving forward. I’m grateful that my past self got enamored enough at writing so present me can easily and naturally write these winding emotional monologues. If I couldn’t, I probably would never communicate my feelings to anyone in any form. I may not fully understand the root of my problems, which are obscured through a lens warped by my self-loathing and mental instability, but I’ll conjecture a solution to be sheer effort and pushing myself in any direction I see fit. I repeat my own sentiments a lot, and I’ll probably keep repeating them until they’re so ingrained in my instinctive actions that I might actually abide by my own messages. Though, I know that I’ll have to push myself constantly to make myself happy. That’s an obvious conclusion I know, so let me specify it a little. I’m going to try to make friends, talk more to the friends I already have, and try to follow this passion for writing wherever it takes me, among other various goals I want to realize. It’ll be a hell of a lot better than being stagnated in a quicksand of self-hatred and lacking the confidence to actually put myself out there. Though, even lacking self-confidence deep down, I want to tell myself that everyone gets hurt while putting themselves out there. I can’t be perfect anyways, and wallowing in misery is ultimately never only going to guarantee that I’ll never reach happiness. I hope my logical optimist brain wins can take control in the end, even though it’s a complex issue to try and rewrite the various ingrained emotional instincts of my brain. Though, I’m at the very least certain that pushing forward with reckless abandon will push me towards a better place than where I am now.</p>
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